


Justice Shall Be Done (We Come For You part 2)

by ChibiAuthorNate



Series: Embers of War [4]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, Sunwell Plateau, killing demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 17:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiAuthorNate/pseuds/ChibiAuthorNate
Summary: The battle for Quel'Danas has ended. Now Archmage Sunfury must prepare to face The Deceiver within the Sunwell Plateau itself.Takes place during "Worlds Apart", book 1.5 of ChibiAuthorJessie's series "Chronicles of War"





	Justice Shall Be Done (We Come For You part 2)

Breaching the plateau is easy. Few defenses are left to hold the entrance after the Legion portals are destroyed. Once inside, however, things become much more difficult. The Shattered Sun forces have managed to secure a single courtyard immediately inside the gates, hastily constructing a staging area and makeshift hospital for the wounded. The guard repels small bands of demons from time to time, but it seems as though the remainder of Kael'thas's forces are content to let the armies of Azeroth lounge on their doorstep.

Beleron glares across the courtyard as another group of demons perishes under Shattered Sun steel. This isn't right. No army simply lets their enemy walk into their stronghold and sit there virtually unmolested. He turns to Captain Theris, who stands off to one side of the courtyard, conversing with a draenei vindicator.

“Captain, we need to attack them now. We cannot afford to wait for a larger assault...it will not come. Our enemies are biding their time, waiting for something to come to pass. I-”

His words are cut short as the sound of steel-on-steel rings out across the courtyard. A new wave of demons arrives to try their luck, this time accompanied by a small force of elves armed with sword and staff. The dark bolts they hurl from their hands mark them as warlocks - spellcasters who have given themselves wholly over to the Fel, thinking in their arrogance that they can control it.

Aethil stands at the center of the fighting, dark magic glancing off the bright globe of Light that surrounds him. Beleron calls out above the din of the fighting.

“Take one of them alive!”

Without even acknowledging the command, the paladin turns and slams the heavy pommel of his mace into the forehead of a nearby warlock. The blow connects with a solid _thud_ , dropping the other elf to the ground. The few remaining imps scatter and flee in terror as their masters are laid low. Hanging his mace from his belt still dripping with demonic ichor, Aethil grabs the fallen elf by the scruff of his robes and drags him across the cobblestones to the cabal of command personnel.

“One crazed, fel-saturated nutjob coming right up.”

Beleron kneels beside the unconscious elf, whispering a spell to bind him in place. It will allow him to speak, but be unable to stand or flee. He then takes a small packet of ground Gromsblood from one of the numerous hidden pockets in his robes, waving the herbs under the elf's nose until the acrid smell jars him from unconsciousness.

“Why are you here? Why do you not attack us in force?”

The warlock stares up at the Archmage with hate-filled eyes, saying nothing.

“Speak. Speak and no harm will come to you, I promise.”

“I will tell you nothing, traitor! You who abandoned us before our hour of triumph. You who left your Prince and your people to follow a senile, blind fool!”

The words cut Beleron deeply. The image of Kael's fel-crazed eyes flash through his mind for an instant, filled with hatred and pain, but also helplessness. He quashes the urge to incinerate the elf where he sits, knowing the act will avail him nothing.

“I will only ask once more. Speak and no harm will befall you. Resist, and I will tear the information from your mind.”

The cold edge in the older elf's voice gives the warlock pause, seeing something hard and unbreakable behind the Archmage's eyes. The slightest shiver runs through his restrained body before a voice not his own claws itself free from his throat.

“Your world will burn and your blood shall fill the seas! I will tell you nothing!”

Beleron turns to Aethil and the others, his jaw clenched tight. Visions of elves lying dead upon the streets of Silvermoon race through his mind. Countless more that lay upon the cold ground of Icecrown and in the spacious halls of Tempest Keep. The lives he had failed to save.

“What I am about to do was outlawed many years ago. I do not do this lightly and it pains me greatly, but I do what I must to save our people.”

Without another word, he turns and mutters an incantation, slamming his hands onto the warlock's temples. The younger elf screams as the magic overloads his mind and lays bare his thoughts.

Images flood through Beleron's mind in rapid succession. Mu'ru's glowing form grown twisted and black. Demons marching across Quel'thalas, Stormwind, the Undercity, and a dozen other densely-populated areas of Azeroth. Enormous hands clawing themselves forth from the depths of the Sunwell.

He releases the spell with a strained gasp, the warlock's body going limp as the magic fades. Drawing in a few ragged breaths, Beleron looks up to the other elves, trying to ignore the horror that is plain on their faces.

“We have to reach the Sunwell. They plan to use it as a portal to the Twisting Nether and allow Kil'jaeden entry into our world.”

Horror still awash upon his face, Theris turns and barks orders to the nearest officers. The Vindicator does the same to the Shattered Sun soldiers near the gates. As the army readies itself, the clamour of weapons and armour is almost deafening.

Beleron hears nothing but the rushing of the blood in his ears as he stares down at the life he had just ended. The life of one of the people - _his people_ \- that he was supposed to save. A young life, one that might have been filled with promise had it not been for the Burning Legion. He crushes the feeling, buries it deep in the recesses of his mind. Before this day is over, he will take many more of the lives that he had long ago sworn to protect. There will be time to grieve when the fighting is done.

Hours of fighting through the outer defenses ensue, the elves that remain from Kael'thas's command throwing themselves into battle with fel-crazed abandon. Fighting alongside them are countless demons, as well as many of the arcane constructs that had once maintained order upon the plateau. No longer do they shine with the golden light of the Sunwell's power - they are now twisted and black, awash in the sickly green aura of the fel.

-

As the last imp splatters against the gleaming white stone of the concourse, a strange sight assaults Beleron's eyes. A blue dragon lays resting in a small courtyard not far away. He does not fight demons, nor do the demons seem to pay him any mind. Beleron calls to the elves near him, the same group that had assaulted the Legion portal with him only two days ago.

“We need to press on, but something about that dragon is not right. It shouldn't be here. Be on your guard.”

Aethil and Na'var ready prayers as they march forward with the paladin in the lead, his shield raised. Ky'anis grins like a madwoman, the blades of her swords practically quivering with excitement in her hands. Mavros walks at Beleron's side, wary of the presence of another dragon.

“There's something strange going on here, my friend. I can feel some darkness ahead, coming from the dragon. It is a power not his own...he smells of evil.”

The group reaches the edge of the courtyard, coming to a swift halt as the dragon's head rolls lazily to the side. One large eye opens slowly, regarding them with an intelligence far more sinister than that of one of the Stewards of Magic.

The dragon tries to speak, but seems to strain against some invisible force that will not let him free. An instant later he is on his feet, roaring with a voice tinged with madness.

“No longer will I be a slave to Malygos!”

The great wyrm rears back and breathes, a vast cone of bone-chilling frost ripping its way across the paved stones. Beleron and Mavros rush through the same incantation a fraction of a second apart, domes of brilliant energy springing up around their companions just as the dragon's breath washes over them. The icy blast slams into the barrier with great force, straining the magic to its limits. Mavros looks over at Beleron with concern clear on his face.

“He's possessed! We need to find a way to free him, preferably without killing him in the process!”

“Agreed! Aethil, when he stops breathing, we will drop the shield. See if you can get his attention long enough for me to figure out how to banish whatever has a hold on him. This is a demon’s doing - the dragon has no control of his actions.”

The pressure on the shield lessens, the dragon having spent his energy trying to bring it down. Releasing the spell, Beleron's mind races through the possible ways to rid a dragon of demonic possession. It might have been easy, had he known such a thing was possible and had spent some time researching it. The dragons are ancient beings of immeasurable power...to think they’re susceptible to such a thing as the whispers of demons is almost inconceivable.

Aethil rushes forward as the shield drops, Ky'anis right on his heel. Na'var calls out his favorite prayer, shielding both elves in globes of soft, golden Light.

“Hey ugly! Yes, you! The grub crawling on the floor of Hell! Come pick on someone your own size!”

The dragon's head snaps around to stare at Aethil, eyes burning with unbridled hate.

“You would dare to challenge me, insect? Your death will be swift!”

The dragon sweeps a gigantic claw down upon the paladin, who accepts the blow with his shield. Between his own protective enchantments and Na'var's blessing, the blow only drives him to his knees. As if hoping that his own power will harm the demon more than its draconic host, Aethil calls out to the Light and blesses the ground upon which he stands. The dragon’s cry of pain tells him that the consecrated ground did indeed cause the demon within discomfort.

Ky'anis uses the dragon's distracted state to take a running leap, without her usual battle cry, to land herself squarely beneath one of the great beast’s wings. Plunging one of her blades into the dragon’s wing joints, she begins to attempt to climb up its side. Mavros circles around the courtyard, hurling blasts of molten rock at specific areas of the dragon's body, apparently trying to knock it off balance.

One blast hits the dragon in the temple, while at the same instant Ky'anis drives one of her swords into his neck. The combined shock of both attacks seemed to freeze it for the briefest of moments, making the demon’s control over it waver ever-so-slightly. Beleron notices a small distortion in the air next to him at that moment, where the edges of reality seem to bend out of place. Taking advantage of the dragon's momentary state of paralysis, Aethil calls out another prayer, golden wings erupting from his back in a blast of Light.

“Anar'alah Belore!”

He slams his mace into the dragon's shin with all the strength he can muster, the near-impenetrable scales cracking under the power of the blow. The distortion next to Beleron becomes more pronounced, and a sound like tearing metal grates against his ears. Knowing that the longer the fight wears on, the more powerful the demon becomes, he takes a gamble and throws his consciousness through the tear in space and time.

Strange hues of blue and purple interlaced with black swirl around him and the strange platform he stands upon. In the center stands the unmistakable horned form of a dreadlord, locked in combat with a half-elf with hair the color of polished cobalt, and a cloak around his shoulders of the same color.

Beleron knows he cannot stand against a dreadlord with only one ally - that is a feat reserved for the greatest champions of the Light. Instead, he reaches out with all his strength to the man locked in combat, pouring his magical energy into the dragon's soul. The man's eyes flare with cerulean light and he shatters the demon in a blast of arcane power.

-

Beleron’s vision is swimming, golden light glowing before his eyes as he regains consciousness. Na'var kneels at his side, his hands moving in slow passes over the Archmage's body.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Praetor. What in Belore's name happened? You froze like a statue in the middle of combat. A moment later, the dragon ceased attacking us and flew off.”

Beleron's words are sluggish, his tongue feeling like it’s made of dry wool.

“I entered the dragon's mind and aided him against the demon. It was a dreadlord, of all things. I gave him much of my magical energy to allow him to overcome the demon's influence and cast him out.”

Aethil looks up from the ledge he's leaning on, worry on his face.

“You've been out for almost six hours. The rest of the plateau is clear, only the Chamber of the Sunwell remains. We lost almost a hundred of our own to the combination of a Pit Lord, a reanimated Blue Dragon, and a pair of twin Eredar sorceresses. That's to say nothing of the lesser demons and our corrupted brethren. We don't have a count of Shattered Sun dead. Everywhere we can put wounded is full to bursting with the dead and dying. The final courtyards were so dense with demons, you could actually _taste_ the Fel in the air.”

Beleron's breath catches in his throat. _One hundred of our own_. One hundred elves when there are already so few. One hundred lives he was supposed to save.

He staggers to his feet with Na'var's help, Mavros handing him his staff and blade. Felo'shiel glows with an angry light, as if the blade yearns to avenge itself upon those who slew so many of its wielder's people.

“Let us make for the Sunwell.” Beleron growls. “I have work to do.”

-

Many people mill about the entrance to the magnificent structure that houses the poisoned heart of Quel'thalas, the soldiers outnumbering the healers almost five to one. The smell of fel iron wafts out of the entrance, stinging Beleron's nostrils. The scent revives memories of Outland, the shattered remains of Legion camps and war machines destroyed by Kael'thas and his followers at Illidan's behest. A strange shadowy energy leaks out from the gate that leads to the large foyer that once was used to house guests and travelers.

A familiar stern shape makes its way over to Beleron and his companions.

“Archmage.” A female voice says calmly, though somewhat curt with exhaustion.

“Lady Liadrin. How many wounded? Do we have a final count?”

The paladin sighs.

“Shattered Sun and mercenary forces approximate their losses somewhere near one hundred combined casualties. Our own dead number nearer to one hundred as well, as many have succumbed to wounds corrupted with Fel strong enough that even the druids could not cleanse it.'

She pauses for a moment and composes herself, as though her next words take great effort.

“We.....” Her breath leaves her in a rush, and her shoulders slump in what seems like defeat. The air around her seems to darken, as if her faith has left her for the moment.

“We had to slay Mu'ru. It was corrupted by some creature of the Void.” She takes another long pause, looking up at Beleron with hate in her eyes and steel in her voice. “We kill him. The Deceiver dies today. His actions forced us to do battle with and destroy a Naa'ru. I will have retribution.”

A weak smile escapes Beleron's lips at the Blood Knight Matriarch's words. While most paladins are protectors of the weak and healers without peer, some are the wrath of the Light given flesh. Living conduits of holy vengeance unleashed upon the tyrant and the fiend. She is one such paladin.

“Gather all those who still have the strength and will to fight, my lady. We shouldn't keep a lord of the Burning Legion waiting.”

 

-

The long trek down the sloping path seems to take an eternity, the skirmishes with the fel-constructs barely even registering in Beleron's mind. Only thirty able fighters, including himself. Thirty of the strongest amongst the Sin'dorei, the Shattered Sun, and the mercenary forces from both the Horde and Alliance. Thirty against one of the three Lords of the Burning Legion. The closer to the final chamber they get, the heavier the air feels. A slow pulse, like the rhythm of a heartbeat, reverberates through the air.

The warriors rush forward through the gauze curtains, sheathed in restorative energies by the priests and shamans that accompany them. They engage the group of eredar channeling energy into the shining reservoir that once housed the lifeblood of the High Elves. The ritualists fall quickly, for they lack the strength to stand against such a large strike force. As the last demon falls, the ground shakes and a terrible scream splits the air. A voice Beleron had never wanted to hear again rumbles out from the depths of the Sunwell as gigantic clawed hands emerge from the glowing liquid.

“The expendable have perished. So be it! Now I shall succeed where Sargeras could not! I will bleed this wretched world and secure my place as the true master of the Burning Legion! The end has come! Let the unraveling of this world commence!”

Beleron stares up at the towering, winged form before him. Even as Mavros and the other members of the strike force charge the demon lord and lock themselves in mortal combat, the Archmage can only glare at Kil'jaedan in terror and wonder. So terrible is the demon's presence that all strength has fled from his limbs. The body of an orc slams into a pillar barely ten feet from where he stands. Slowly, ever so slowly, the sound of Kael'thas screaming overloads all of Beleron's senses.

The shock gives way to white-hot rage. Hatred so intense now burns within Archmage's breast that the air around him warps like heated metal. He does not call out the words of a spell, nor draw his sword or raise his staff. Instead, he coalesces his mind and hurtles his presence directly at Kil'jaedan. In an instant, his consciousness is locked in a duel with the demon lord and the weight of the demon's psyche hits him like an avalanche. Had he been fully prepared and not exhausted from days of fighting, he might have had a chance. But his rage has locked him into a confrontation in which he can not hope to be victorious. Cold, mocking laughter fills his mind.

“You are a fool, elf. Like your misbegotten Prince, you contend with forces you cannot possibly comprehend. I will crush you and the rest of these insects. Then I will burn this world to ash.”

Beleron's will begins to falter, Kil'jaedan's overwhelming power smothering his life-spark out in the darkness.

“You are weak. You have always been weak. You posture and sneer at those you think beneath you because it makes you feel powerful.” Somehow Beleron feels as though Kil'jaedan's face is inches from his own. “You. Are. Nothing.”

-

Mavros glances over at Beleron, wondering why his friend's body is motionless and rigid in the midst of such fierce fighting. All around him, the heroes contend with shadowy versions of themselves conjured by Kil'jaedan's dark magic. Deflecting a blow from his own shadow double, the dragon watches the elf fall to his knees.

-

His vision, if his mind truly has vision, was beginning to blur. Hopelessness gnaws at him. He couldn't save Kael'thas. He couldn't save his family. He couldn't save his king. He is worthless and weak, and he deserves to die. The world would be better off without him. He began to let the last defenses around his mind fall, let Kil'jaedan snuff out his pitiful soul.

Somewhere at the edge of his fading vision, golden light begins to shine. A voice he never thought he would hear again speaks softly to him, the sound making all his pain and helplessness wash away in an instant. He strains with all the strength he can muster, turning his head to look up as a woman's hand rests itself on his shoulder. His wife stands beside him, her body glowing golden, like the rising of the sun after a dark, moonless night. She smiles down at him with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Strength, my sun of suns. There is much yet for you to accomplish. I am with you. Always.”

Another hand, this one male, rests on his other shoulder.

“You give in so easily? Come now, old friend, you are not cowed so easily.”

He stares up at the face of his oldest friend in disbelief. Glowing with the same golden Light as his wife, Kael’thas grins with a fierceness that the Archmage had almost forgotten. The weight of Kil'jaedan's presence lessens and Beleron looks around the chamber. All around the fighting, figures of golden light walk toward him.

Many are faceless, but some are strikingly familiar. Grand Magister Belo'vir. His father and mother. His children. Every one of them walks toward him and into him. His strength surges, vitality swelling within his limbs. He rises to his feet, his eyes burning with power. Kil'jaedan forces more power against the walls of his mind, redoubling his efforts to drive the elf's soul into oblivion.

“No! You cannot defeat me! This world is mine to conquer!”

Beleron sneers as the power of his people's memory sends strength singing through his veins.

“You will never have purchase here demon! Never again will you besmirch the blood of my people or the soil of my homeland! _Selama ashal’anore_!”

With a final surge of will, Beleron shatters the demon's hold on his mind and forces Kil'jaedan's essence down into the portal that leads back to the Twisting Nether. The soldiers and adventurers, sensing a shift in the demon lord's power, unleash their mightiest spells and techniques against him. With a soul-rending scream, the Deceiver falls back into the darkness from whence he came.

Beleron smiles weakly as the bliss of unconsciousness envelops him, the expenditure of so much power sapping what was left of his already-depleted strength. The last thing he sees is a brilliant flash of golden radiance.

 

-

The Sunwell is restored. The steady thrumming of power washing over Eversong, like the soothing words of a mother chasing nightmares away.

Calling upon his magic is easier now, as it had been years ago. The feeling is different, the Sunwell now empowered by the Light instead of the arcane, but the energy is there all the same. The magic involved in this transmutation, of changing a chunk of raw stone into something more, had never been his forte - most of his family is much more gifted with destruction than anything else. Still, the words of the incantation coax the stone of the cliff up through the grass into the solid shape of a headstone. Atop the stone he lays a subtle enchantment to create a soft glow upon a small shape, carved in the likeness of a chess piece. The Red King. Engraved below it with care in the tongues of elves and men:

“ _In memory of Kael’thas Sunstrider. Devoted Prince. Most trusted of friends. May the Eternal Sun always light his path_.”

Beleron smiles as the ocean breeze whips through his silvering hair. Tyr'iel had come to the Sunwell, had seen the resurrection of the heart of their kingdom, his eyes now glowing golden with renewed strength. Wanted or not, the crown now rests on his brow.

His smile fades as he turns from his creation and kneels on the cliffside, wiping fallen leaves and moss from the four other headstones overlooking the sea. At the base of each of the three smaller stones, he lays a single flowering stalk of peacebloom.

Tears well up in his eyes as he hums a tune as old as the trees. A lullaby that has no words, passed down from mother to daughter, father to son since the days of Dath'remar Sunstrider. It is a melody that soothes a frightened soul, driving away nightmares and shadows that dwell beneath beds and skulk in closets. Ty'ala, his beloved daughter, had heard it most often, for she jumped at every shadow, thinking it a lurking troll, but he had sung it to each of his three children on many nights, and on more than one, to Tyri’el. He then lays a small bundle of firebloom at the base of the largest stone.

“We did it, my guiding sun. The Sunwell is restored. Would that all of you were here to see it. Only one thing remains. I know you would not want me to cling to my hatred, but Arthas will pay for taking you away from me.” Tears fall softly on the petals of the flowers and run swiftly into the grass beneath. “I cannot forget how he treated Kael'thas, nor the compounding of his sins when he murdered you and our children.”

He stands and walks slowly from the graves, the wind drying the tears on his cheeks.

“I am so sorry, dala'surfal. I cannot forgive.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this took so long, but I kept reading and re-reading until I hated it and had to start over >_<. I'm also not great at the feels if they aren't of the righteous anger variety. As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated! 
> 
> For anyone who wants some mood music to go along with this, the battle for the Sunwell/with Kil’jaedan is set to the Disturbed cover of Land of Confusion. The moments at the graves feature Fields of Gold by Sting.


End file.
